


so right, so warm and true

by ShowMeAHero



Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [22]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Babies, Big Dick Richie Tozier, Bottom Richie Tozier, Childhood Trauma, Coming Untouched, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jewish Richie Tozier, Kid Fic, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Naming Ceremonies, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Richcraft, Trauma, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21622084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: “What if we don’t have enough drinks?” Eddie asks, digging through their fridge while Richie spoons yogurt into Riley’s mouth. She frowns at him, but swallows it anyways.“Then I’ll go out in the morning and get some,” Richie tells him. “Babe, I’m telling you, we’ve done everything we can. It’s not until tomorrow anyways, we have time if we forgot anything.”Eddie closes the fridge door and sighs. After a moment, he comes over to lean against their kitchen table, tapping his fingers against his arm a little too aggressively. After a long moment, he starts to say, “What if—”“There’s nowhat if,”Richie cuts him off. “Ipromise you,it’ll be okay.”
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493912
Comments: 39
Kudos: 319





	so right, so warm and true

**Author's Note:**

> First things first:  
> 1\. I know the Latin is probably conjugated wrong. I used Google Translate. I'll include a translation at the end. I don't need corrections on the Latin! It doesn't matter! [I made it up!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhePEs4IL8w)  
> 2\. This is based off my friend's naming ceremony for her twin daughters. If this isn't how you do it, that's okay! If this isn't how your family does naming ceremonies, that's okay! Please don't tell me it's incorrect. It's based off my friend's real ceremony. It's just not like yours!  
> 3\. You guys are all so amazing! Please see some exciting news about my Twitter in the end notes!
> 
> Title taken from ["Waiting for a Girl Like You"](https://open.spotify.com/track/1UrZVcINJBqjKw2rF8V0nm?si=KwQF3FbZTxKzf1wNqm0sDA) by Foreigner.

Richie is _starting_ to think that having all three naming ceremonies for the three girls on the same day, in their apartment, might be stressing Eddie out _more_ than if they had had three _separate_ naming ceremonies in a synagogue. The ceremonies (or, really, “ceremonies,” since Richie’s not the best at religious shit and just wants it over fast so he can start the party after) aren’t supposed to be long. Stan is going to help them through it. Richie’s made more than enough food for the party after. It’s going to be _fine._

“What if we don’t have enough drinks?” Eddie asks, digging through their fridge while Richie spoons yogurt into Riley’s mouth. She frowns at him, but swallows it anyways.

“Then I’ll go out in the morning and get some,” Richie tells him. “Babe, I’m telling you, we’ve done everything we can. It’s not until tomorrow anyways, we have time if we forgot anything.”

Eddie closes the fridge door and sighs. After a moment, he comes over to lean against their kitchen table, tapping his fingers against his arm a little too aggressively. After a long moment, he starts to say, “What if—”

“There’s no _what if,”_ Richie cuts him off. “I _promise_ you, it’ll be okay.”

“But what if we fuck something up!” Eddie exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air. Richie just catches the movement out of the corner of his eye, and he flinches, a long-standing fear response from his parents. He moves past it quick, though, but his flinch makes Riley flinch, and then she’s looking up at Eddie with wide, terrified eyes for a split second before she bursts into tears.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, he didn’t mean it,” Richie tells her urgently, setting the yogurt aside and scooping her up. She sobs into his chest, fists clenching in his shirt. Richie looks up at Eddie, alarmed, but he’s almost in tears, too. “No, _no,_ hey, it’s okay, you just spooked us, it’s fine.”

“I didn’t—” Eddie starts to say, then stops. He rubs at his face, then exhales sharply. Richie’s heart is pounding in his chest while Riley screams murder in his ear, so he just gets up from the table so he can try and walk her around.

“He’s not mad,” Richie assures her. “He’s not mad at you. Neither of us would ever hurt you, okay?”

Riley just keeps crying into his shirt, inconsolable; Richie rubs her back under her shirt, hoping his warm skin on hers might help ground her.

“I didn’t mean to,” Eddie says helplessly.

“I know,” Richie tells him, because of _course_ he knows that. He knows that Eddie would never hurt any of them, that he’d sooner die than lay a hand on one of them or shout at them; he _knows_ that Eddie would kill anyone who actually _did_ hurt one of them. It doesn’t matter, though, in the split-second moment when Richie was eight years old again, waiting for his dad to knock him out on the kitchen floor, and it doesn’t seem to matter to Riley, either.

Richie and Eddie _pored_ over all of Riley and Audrey’s medical documentation and the reports from Child Services. They read _everything,_ so they know everything that happened in the house they got pulled from, and Richie can only imagine what goes through Riley’s head when she gets scared. He knows it’s a lot like his situation, but she’s not even two years old yet. She can’t process and compartmentalize like he can. In spite of that, she’s amazingly resilient and strong and _funny,_ and Richie _adores_ her, but she still gets spooked now and then.

Like now. She’s keeping her face buried in Richie’s chest as she screams, her hands covering her face as he bounces her back and forth to try and calm her down.

“Hey, I got you,” he tells her quietly, “I got you, I’m here, I’ll never let anything happen to you. Okay? I’ll never let anyone hurt you, baby girl, you’re safe with me, I promise.”

The constant stream of words seems to be giving her something to focus on, at least, because she quiets a little to be able to hear him. She fists her hands in his shirt again and tips her face back to look at him.

“Oh, honey,” he says. He pushes her glasses up on through her hair to the top of her head so he can wipe her face dry on his sleeve. “You’re okay. I got you.”

She keeps quieting the more he talks, so he just keeps talking, the same things over and over, an endless streaming litany of _I got you, I’m here, you’re safe, I love you,_ until she’s just sniffling into his shirt. Finally, he looks back up at Eddie; he’s taken a seat at the kitchen table and looks absolutely fucking miserable.

“It’s okay,” Richie says, looking at him instead of down at Riley. Eddie wipes at his own face with a napkin off the table. “Neither of us will _ever_ hurt you. Okay? We promise.”

“We do,” Eddie says, as softly as he can. Riley turns to look at him hesitantly, fists still tight in Richie’s shirt. “I’m so sorry, Riley, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’d never hurt you, I swear. I promise. I _promise.”_

Riley keeps studying him silently with her big, dark eyes. Richie slides her glasses back down, and she turns her face into his chest again. Eddie looks heartbroken.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Richie tells them both, rubbing her back again. She yawns against his chest, a wavering, wet sound, still filled with tears. “Why don’t we go lay down for a little bit, okay?”

“Mm,” she whimpers into his chest. Richie beckons for Eddie to follow him to their bedroom, and he does. Audrey’s bassinet is on Richie’s side of the bed, and Nora’s is on Eddie’s; they’re both already asleep, hopefully for the night. Richie grabs one of the nightgowns he keeps in his own dresser, for whenever Riley falls asleep in their bed, and sets her down on the mattress.

“Stay right there, squirt, okay?” Richie says, but Riley won’t let go of him when he moves to stand up. “Hey, I need some help, bud. Will you sit on the bed for me?”

Riley shakes her head, hooking her arms around Richie’s neck.

“You gotta change out of your clothes, Riles,” Richie tells her. She shakes her head again, so Richie turns to Eddie and holds out the nightgown to him. “Help me out over here, Eds.”

Eddie comes over hesitantly. He takes the nightgown from Richie’s hand, then asks, “Is it okay if I help you get dressed, Riley?”

Riley doesn’t answer for a long, _long_ moment, but Richie and Eddie silently wait her out. After that minute, though, she slowly nods, and leans back from Richie enough to let Eddie pull her dress off over her head. It takes a little more finagling to get the nightgown _on,_ but they manage it between the three of them.

Eddie shuts off the light and the two of them climb into bed together, Riley still clinging to Richie’s front. He pulls the covers up over her; she rests her cheek over his heart. He takes her glasses off for her; he can feel the long scar along her cheek as he does, and he wants, intensely, to murder the people who put it there.

“You’re okay,” Richie tells her, when she yawns again. “Go to sleep, sweetie. I’m here, Daddy’s here, you’re safe. We promise.”

“Okay,” she says softly. She tips her head back to look up at Richie. “You okay?”

Richie huffs a laugh, then says, “Yeah, short stack. I’m okay. Are _you_ okay?”

Riley nods. Richie kisses her on the forehead, then on top of her head, burying his face in her hair for a moment.

“Sorry,” she tells him.

“You have _nothing_ to be sorry for,” he says. “I promise. The people who hurt you are gone and they’re not coming back, you’re safe with us.”

“Okay,” she says again. After a moment, she turns again so she can look at Eddie in the darkness. After a moment, she says, “Daddy.”

“Riley, I’m _so_ sorry,” Eddie says tearfully. He holds out his hands, and she hesitates for a moment before she holds hers out, too, and Richie passes her over to him. She clutches Eddie tightly, like she never wants to let him go again, and he holds her the same way. “I will _never_ hurt you. I promise. I’ll do anything to stop people from hurting you, I swear. I _swear.”_

“Daddy,” Riley says again, and he scoots up to hold her tighter, letting her rest her head against his shoulder. He turns his face into the side of her head, inhales, steadies himself. Richie reaches out and scratches his nails through Eddie’s curly hair. He sighs.

“We’re okay,” Richie says. Riley yawns again, her eyes fluttering shut, then drifting back open as she tries to keep her attention on Richie. “Go to sleep, baby. You got a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”

Riley nods tiredly again, letting her eyes drift closed and stay that way. Richie shuffles over to Eddie’s side of the bed, curling around the both of them, wrapping his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and stroking his fingers lightly through Riley’s hair as she falls asleep. They’re silent until she’s asleep, and then even after that, as her breathing evens and deepens, until Richie’s pretty sure he sees her hit her REM cycle.

“I’m so sorry,” Eddie whispers into the darkness.

“Lay her down,” Richie whispers back. “Let’s go in the living room.”

Eddie nods, in the darkness, and shuffles to lay Riley down on the bed. She sighs softly, turning her face into Eddie’s pillow. Richie’s pretty sure Eddie’s her favorite, but he’s alright with that. Eddie’s his favorite, too.

By the time they make it back out into their living room, it’s past nine o’clock. Richie’s not sure when _past nine o’clock_ started qualifying as a _late hour_ to him, but it’s probably around the time he gathered three tiny people in his apartment that fall asleep around seven-thirty, most nights. 

“I’m not mad at you,” Richie says, before Eddie can say anything else. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I don’t want her to think I’d hurt her,” Eddie confesses quietly. Richie makes a mental note to congratulate him later on how good he’s getting at verbally expressing his emotions. “I don’t want to be like her birth parents, Richie. I don’t want her to think of _me_ that way.”

“She doesn’t,” Richie tells him. He gets in his over-large armchair and pulls Eddie down into his lap. Eddie goes, shoving his feet in between the cushions and the arm of the chair, tucking his head under Richie’s chin. Richie, for his part, just lets Eddie get comfortable and rubs his back as he settles.

“What if it sticks in her head?” Eddie asks. “What if she has nightmares about me?”

“Eddie, she fell asleep with you,” Richie reminds him. He turns his face into Eddie’s curls and kisses the top of his head. “She’s not scared. She just _got_ scared. It happens to me all the time. She’s gonna be okay.”

Eddie’s quiet again. After a long while, he says, “I want to kill the people who hurt her, Richie. I really do. I feel like— like I felt with your parents. I want to kill them.”

“I do, too,” Richie tells him honestly. He feels it deep, _deep_ in his chest. He wonders if this is how Eddie would feel, when Richie would fall through his window at midnight in middle school, covered in blood and bruises. He’s not sure how Eddie kept it together that entire time.

“What do we do?” Eddie asks.

“Is there anything we _can_ do?” Richie asks back. After a moment, he says, “Fuck, we’re fucking stupid.”

“What?” Eddie asks, as Richie pushes him off his lap and climbs out of his chair. He digs through his bookshelves before he surfaces with _The Black Arts._ He holds it up, and Eddie says, “Ah.”

“Is it too far, do you think?” Richie looks down at the book, then opens up to the middle of it. The page is blank for a moment, but then, the ink starts to bleed onto the page. After a moment, the page says, _Torment the Tormentors_ _._

“What does it say?” Eddie asks. Richie brings the book back to the armchair, and Eddie retakes his spot in his lap to read over his shoulder. “I can’t see anything.”

“I’m the only one who can read it,” Richie says. He skims the page, heart pounding. After a moment, he says, “It’ll find them. Whoever hurt them. It won’t kill them, but it says…” Richie finds the sentence he’d just read, his palms sweating, and reads, “‘When the tormentors seek to eat, all food will turn to ash in their mouths; when they seek to drink, all liquids will turn to piss in their throats. Their skin will boil and rot over many years. Their eyes will melt from their heads.’ Holy fuck.”

“And that _doesn’t_ kill them?” Eddie asks, a bit nervously. “It sounds like it’ll kill them.”

“‘The tormentors will spend years suffering,’” Richie reads off the page, “‘and will live longer than they were meant to, if only to prolong their suffering.’”

“Holy fuck,” Eddie echoes.

“They’ll actually live longer, then,” Richie says. “As punishment.”

The two of them look at each other. After a while, Eddie asks, “What do we need?”

There’s a _lot_ of shit they need, but Richie has most of it in the box labelled **_Richcraft_ **in the back of their closet. It’s one of the most complex spells Richie has ever tried, but he feels so strongly about it, his chest feels that it’s worth it. He knows that the feelings that surface deep from the inside of his ribcage are the ones that he should trust. They’re the cosmic ones.

“We need a…” Richie consults the book. “‘A dark, cleansed, solitary room,’ it says.”

“Guest room,” Eddie whispers. Richie hoists the **_Richcraft_ ** box and follows Eddie silently to the guest room, which has become their catch-all activity room when they don’t want the girls to see. The only two activities they really do in there are execute magical spells and fuck each other, but it’s important there’s a locked door between all of that and three children under the age of two. Eddie cleanses the room with sage before organizing their two black candles and two red candles on the floor. Richie ensures the door is locked; then, he casts a silencing charm he learned a couple months back on the walls and the door. _Just in case,_ he figures.

“Okay,” he says, opening up the **_Richcraft_ **box. He looks at the book in the flickering candlelight, then starts reading the ingredients off the page again. He takes a small cloth bag and stuffs a few bare chicken bones, a couple chunks of red brick, and a handful of wine-boiled mandrake root. “Can you find me a bell?”

“A _bell?”_ Eddie asks, then turns back to the box. He digs through it, then says, “How fucking big _is_ this box?”

Richie glances over, then says, “Oh, yeah, I cast a spell on it, it’s got a bunch of extra room now. Look deeper down towards the left.”

Eddie reaches in further, going up past his elbow, nearly falling over into the box. He resurfaces and holds up a little brass bell, then tosses it into Richie’s cloth bag when he holds it open. “I don’t want to know how you fucking did that.”

 _“Magic,”_ Richie stage-whispers. He drops three bee stingers into the cloth bag, followed by sulfur and obsidian. He cinches the top, sets the bag down on his cutting board, and surveys it. “Okay. Pass me the hammer.”

Eddie does as he’s asked, slipping the small, heavy hammer into Richie’s hand. Richie aims carefully, then smashes the hammer down over the bag, obliterating the contents inside. It makes a loud _bang,_ so Richie whispers one of his silencing charms over the cutting board before he smashes the hammer into it again. It doesn’t make a single sound this time.

“Holy fuck,” Eddie whispers. He looks up at Richie, eyes wide, orange light flickering over his face from the candles. “I— _Richie.”_

“I Richie,” Richie replies. “You Eddie.” He opens the bag up and looks into the powdered, fragmented mess inside. “Nice. Alright, we got a bowl?”

Eddie sets the bowl down beside the cutting board; Richie dumps the bag’s contents into it, then starts pulling jars and bottles out of his box. In addition to the shit already in the bowl, he puts in lemon, frankincense, cinnamon, lavender, and dragon’s blood incense.

“There are two last ingredients,” Richie says. “The first is three drops each of the defenders’ blood.”

Eddie picks up the knife without hesitation and cuts into the pad of his thumb. He lets three drops of his blood fall into the bowl before he hands the knife over to Richie, handle-first. “Your turn.”

Richie looks at him for a moment, then says, “You’ve gotten even hotter the bolder you’ve gotten, you know.”

Eddie smiles a little bit. Richie takes the knife and cuts into the pad of his own thumb. Three drops of blood trail down his nail and drip into the bowl, too, right on top of Eddie’s.

“What else do we need?” Eddie asks. “What’s the last ingredient?”

“‘A strong hatred or contempt for the tormentors,’” Richie reads off the page of the propped-open book.

“Fucking done,” Eddie says.

“Okay, we need to bring our hatred to the forefront of our minds,” Richie tells him.

“Again, done.”

“And we have to chant this three times,” Richie says, taking Eddie’s hands in his over their bowl, “so just— repeat after me. Okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie says, squeezing his hands. “I trust you.”

Richie feels a surge of strength. It courses through their joined hands and up Richie’s arms, tingling through his shoulders and spreading like gasoline-ignited flame through his abdomen. He feels that same fork-in-a-toaster feeling that he usually gets when his spells are going right, and he leans back over to the book.

 _“Maledicendum inimicis meis,”_ Richie says, and Eddie repeats him. _“Male cogitantes mihi mala.”_

 _“Male cogitantes mihi mala,”_ Eddie echoes hesitantly. A breeze drifts across their faces.

 _“Maledictus qui duxit mihi lacrimæ,”_ Richie continues. The breeze picks up, edges closer towards wind. _“Qui male egerunt maledicere.”_

Eddie repeats him as he speaks, and the wind whips through their hair. The contents of the bowl don’t move as Richie says, _“Tempore visitationis suae robore. Hoc volo, sic fiat semper.”_

The wind slaps at Richie’s face, makes it hard to speak. He doesn’t let go of Eddie’s hands, clinging tightly to him even as he squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel the words coming up out of his chest, even though he can’t read it anymore. He says, _“Hoc non est quid erimus agendarum rationes attinet. Nos non pulsant. Nos mos utor nostris manibus et pedibus.”_

“Richie,” Eddie calls.

“Repeat after me, Eddie, don’t stop,” Richie shouts over the wind. _“Uicti hostis erit. Aequo iudicio adflixerit me et te. Vos mea a quibus iniuriam acceperis. Vos universum a quibus iniuriam acceperis.”_

Eddie echoes him without stopping. Richie can feel his thumb still leaking blood sluggishly onto the back of Eddie’s hand. He forces his eyes open so he can see Eddie, who’s already looking back, curly hair blowing around his face.

 _“Sic fiat semper ad te, infinitum temporis,”_ Richie continues. “It’s almost done, Eddie, come on, then we just gotta do it two more times—”

 _“Sic fiat semper ad te, infinitum temporis,”_ Eddie shouts back.

“Good!” Richie tells him. “Good, alright, uhh— _Et sic fieri, quod tibi a quibus iniuriam acceperis.”_

“Hurry up, Richie,” Eddie calls to him after he repeats him, voice loud over the hurricane winds throwing all the shit around the guest room. The two of them and the bowl in between them are the only things that don’t move.

 _“Et nunc tibi iniuriam, quam dolorem tuum et perpetua morte,”_ Richie finishes. “Okay, second time, let’s _go—”_

They do it a second time, and then a third, the wind picking up and hurling itself at their faces as he does. The moment they say _“morte”_ together for the third time, the winds completely fall, and the room is set back to rights.

“Did…” Eddie asks, hesitantly. Richie slowly releases his hands. “…Did it work?”

Richie feels warmth flood through him, shining and sticky like taffy sunshine. It stays along the insides of his veins, lingering like syrup inside of him. He exhales, slowly, and the bubble pops, and he knows they’ve succeeded.

“Yeah,” Richie breathes. He looks down at Eddie, then leans over the bowl and kisses him softly. Eddie wraps his hands up in Richie’s pajama shirt, tugs him in closer and deepens the kiss.

“That was fucking amazing,” Eddie tells him breathlessly. “Is that how you feel all the time? That was _amazing—”_

“Eddie, fuck,” Richie— Well, it _punches_ out of him, more than he says it. Eddie pushes the bowl out of the way, careful not to spill its contents before tackling Richie to the ground. He shoves Richie’s shirt up and off; his teeth are there, suddenly, and his tongue, his _mouth,_ kissing down Richie’s chest.

“You’re amazing,” Eddie says. “How do you do that?”

“It just comes out of me,” Richie says, and Eddie draws up to kiss him bruisingly hard, biting into his lower lip. “Eddie, holy fuck, are you—”

“That was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen,” Eddie tells him breathlessly. He yanks Richie’s pants down, then sits back to rip his own shirt off over his head.

“Eddie, _shit,”_ Richie groans. Eddie clambers up off of him and goes to the bedside table, grabbing the lube and shucking his own pants off on his way back. He climbs over Richie, kissing along his neck up to the shell of his ear.

“Can I fuck you?” Eddie asks. Richie nods excitedly; Eddie squeezes lube out into his hands and starts fingering Richie open within seconds. He can’t help but arch his back up, trying to push down on Eddie’s index finger.

“Oh, holy shit,” Richie whispers, then says, “Oh, fuck, Eddie, _fuck—”_

“I got you,” Eddie tells him. He adds his middle finger, starts scissoring him open. They don’t do it this way often, but Richie loves when he gets the chance to feel Eddie’s heat inside him, to feel his urgency and his lust and his desire, trying to climb into Richie’s skin. He always focuses all of his attention on him, deeply, and it makes Richie’s blood fucking _sing._

Eddie slips in his ring finger, opens Richie up easily under his hands. He mouths along Richie’s jaw, murmuring, “I love you, Richie, holy fuck, I love you so _much,_ Jesus Christ,” as he goes. He bites into the hinge of his jaw, sucks a hickey into Richie’s throat. His sheer fucking _voracity_ is an aggressive turn-on in and of itself; Richie’s impossibly hard already.

“Come on, Eddie, _come on,”_ he groans, and Eddie pulls his fingers out just to lube up his own cock instead. He lines up, and Richie says, “I’m ready, just _go.”_

“Jesus fucking _Christ,_ you think you’re so fucking _bossy_ tonight,” Eddie says. He licks into Richie’s mouth as he sinks in, inch by inch, until their hips are flush against each other. He pulls back, all heavy breathing and wide pupils and wind-mussed hair dripping with sweat. Eddie holds himself up over Richie for a long moment, arms nearly trembling. After a long moment, he kisses Richie softly, then pulls out and fucks back into him.

 _“Oh,_ holy shit,” Richie gasps. Eddie fucks into him _hard_ now, barely holding himself up as he finds a hard, fast rhythm right up against Richie’s prostate. Richie digs his fingers into Eddie’s hips, tries to push up to meet him, but Eddie shoves him back down. That move _alone_ is a straight shock to Richie’s dick, and he moans loudly.

“Don’t be so fucking loud,” Eddie snaps down at him, just as he shoves in on another thrust and slams into Richie’s prostate again, and Richie comes untouched in between them, splattering both of their chests with cum. Eddie looks absolutely bewildered by it. Richie just shuts his eyes, breathing through the aftershocks of his orgasm until he’s calmed down again. “Did you just fucking cum when I yelled at you?”

“Shh,” Richie murmurs, almost slurring. “Hold it, gimme a sec, I’m enjoying being yelled at s’more.”

“Hold on,” Eddie says, and pulls out of him. Richie’s eyes snap open to see Eddie taking his own cock in his hand and jerking himself in hard strokes until he’s coming all over Richie’s chest and his belly. Richie laughs, grinning at him.

“You’re _so_ fucking hot,” Richie tells him, grinning, delighted. He feels even better than he had after the ritual was finished. Eddie leans over, kisses Richie on the cheek, then kisses along his cheekbone to his nose, then down to his mouth.

“What time is it?” Eddie asks, once he pulls away and collapses against Richie’s side, yawning. Richie turns, digging his phone out of his pants pocket, discarded beside him. He licks the dried blood off of his thumb as he opens his phone. “You’re disgusting.”

“Says the guy who just fucked me into the floor of our guest room next to our bloody witchcraft bowl,” Richie shoots back. “It’s 11:23, by the way.”

Eddie groans. “We have to go to bed, we have to get at least eight hours of sleep and I _know_ Nora’s gonna be up at six in the morning—”

Richie silences Eddie by kissing him softly. He presses in closer, a hard, closed-mouth kiss, before he draws back a breath and says, “I love you so much. Thank you.”

“Thank _you,”_ Eddie echoes. He doesn’t even ask what for. Richie feels like their souls might be connected or some stupid shit like that. “Now, help me clean all this up. I’m fucking tired.”

“You think _you’re_ fucking tired, _I_ just summoned fucking space magic to get vengeance on our kids’ birth parents,” Richie says, stretching his arms above his head. “Hard fucking work. _Draining.”_

Eddie kisses him again, then whispers, “Get the fuck up and help me,” against Richie’s lips. Richie grins, kisses him back before shoving him off and hauling himself, groaning, to his feet.

“We _cannot_ fuck on the floor for much longer,” Richie tells him, gathering their clothes. “I’m gonna throw my fucking back out.”

“Old man,” Eddie comments. He drops a bunch of the jars back into the **_Richcraft_ **box.

“You are _six months_ younger than me,” Richie reminds him. Eddie tosses his shirt at his face.

“And it shows,” Eddie insists with a grin, so Richie just has to kiss him again.

* * *

Stan shows up with Patty and Ezra an hour before the naming ceremonies are supposed to start to help them get ready. Patty and Ezra stay with Eddie in the living room while Richie drags Stan to their bedroom to help him with the girls. Riley’s sitting in the middle of the bed, looking up at them expectantly when they come in.

“Why aren’t they dressed?” Stan asks, bewildered. Richie lifts Nora up out of her bassinet and pushes her hair back from her face. Every day, he thinks, she looks less like them and more like herself. She doesn't have Eddie's hair with Richie's hair color anymore, she has her own jet-black curls spilling down over her face; she doesn't have Eddie's big, dark eyes or Richie's smiling mouth or Eddie's grandmother's cheekbones or Richie's aunt's nose, she has her own face. She looks like _herself,_ now.

"Because I need _help,"_ Richie whispers desperately. He kicks the bedroom door shut and locks it with one hand. "I said I'd get them ready but there are _so many_ of them and only _one_ of me."

"There are _three_ of them," Stan says, but he's got a kid of his own, so he obviously gets it and starts helping Richie fold each of them into their dresses.

"Thanks again for doing this," Richie says. He gets Nora's arms through her dress sleeves with maximum struggling; tragically, she's inherited Eddie's temperament, and looks terrifyingly pissed at being manhandled into lace.

"No problem." Stan spins Riley around in her dress until she laughs and falls over before moving on to Audrey. "You've got their names picked out, right?"

"Oh, ye of little faith," Richie says. "We picked out their Hebrew names two _whole_ nights ago. You should be _proud."_

"I'm as proud as I am surprised," Stan tells him. "Which way does this go?"

Richie glances over his shoulder, then says, "Buttons go in the back."

"Dresses are too complicated," Stan grumbles at the ball of satin in has hands. Audrey glares at him as he tries to pull it down over her head. "Fuck this. This is insane."

"Swap with me," Richie tells him. Stan finishes fastening Nora's headband in place while Richie dresses Audrey, since he's the only one she cares to give any attention to right now. Richie keeps telling Eddie it's just a baby phase, probably, but Eddie is insistent that she prefers Richie.

"Ta-da," Richie announces, showing Audrey off to Riley. "What'd you think, short stack?"

Riley surveys her sister, then says, "Pretty."

"You're very pretty, too, little miss," Stan tells her. He scoops her up and lets her kiss him on the cheek.

“I might’ve done something,” Richie says abruptly. He’d meant to broach it gentler than that, but Stan just turns to him, one eyebrow raised.

“What did you do?” Stan asks. His face is a little red, but he doesn’t look angry yet. Just concerned. Richie loves him hard, for a moment, before he answers.

“I…” He stops, takes a breath. “Alright, you can’t judge me for this, okay? Because I was _really_ angry.”

“Richie, what did you _do?”_ Stan asks, more forcefully. His eyebrows are knit together now.

“Okay, so, I was super pissed because I was thinking about how Riley’s parents— birth parents, her _birth parents,_ how they abused her, and I thought about anyone treating her like my parents treated me, so I just— I got so angry, I— I put a curse on them,” Richie explains, without taking a breath. His hearing’s a little fuzzy, so he inhales deeply. “Eddie and I did, I mean.”

“You… put a curse on them,” Stan says, slowly. “On Riley’s birth parents?”

“Riley and Audrey’s,” Richie spits. “Their _tormentors._ According to the book.”

“Which book?” Stan demands. Richie turns his attention back down to Riley. _“Richie.”_

 _“The Black Arts,”_ Richie says, and Stan groans.

“That fucking _book,_ Richie,” Stan snaps. Richie raises one hand in a universal _what can you do?_ gesture, as if he’d gotten in a fender-bender instead of laying an eternal curse on several strangers.

“Eddie did it _with me,_ I was _not_ a rogue agent in this,” Richie defends. “We did it together! And, Stan, I mean—” Richie gestures to Riley, who looks over at Stan with a furrowed brow. Richie motions to the scar along her cheek. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t think about them out there, thinking they got away with something like this. That something like this was _okay.”_

Stan takes this in for a moment before moving to set Nora down on the bed. He pulls Audrey out of Richie’s hands and lays her down beside her sisters. After a beat, he looks to Richie again, then yanks him in and holds him close, the tightest hug Richie has gotten from anyone in a long time. Richie’s bewildered for a moment before his arms go around Stan, too, and it’s just like when they were younger, limbs fitting together easily, Richie’s face in Stan’s hair, sighing, relaxed.

“I’m not angry,” Stan tells him. “I can’t— When I thought about Ezra, or— or any of them, Riley, I just—” Stan huffs a little and tightens his grip.

“I know,” Richie tells him, because he gets it. It’s what drove him to the curse in the first place. “I—”

“‘S okay,” Riley says from the bed. Richie pulls away to look down at her.

“That was pretty much a full sentence, pipsqueak,” Richie says. He scoops her up, kissing her loudly on the cheek while she shrieks. “You’re gonna go to college soon, aren’t you, you little prodigy?”

“No!” Riley exclaims. Richie kisses the top of her head, then hugs her tight.

“Damn right.” Richie tells her. “You’re gonna hang out with me forever, right?”

“Right,” she says. She looks to Stan and says, simply, “Stan.”

 _“Ugh,_ before my very eyes,” Richie says dramatically, if only to stop himself from _actually_ crying over this. He looks back to Stan and says, “You see why I did what I did.”

“I wish you didn’t have to,” Stan tells him. After a beat, he says, “But I get it. I really do.”

“Thanks, Stan,” Richie says, sounding a little choked up, even to his own ears. They’re both very aware of what Stan’s validation means to Richie; he clears his throat just to make it less awkward, then says, “So. Ready to roll?”

“Yes, sir.” Stan sticks Audrey into Richie’s other arm for him before lifting Nora himself. Stan has to open the door for them, but Richie beats him back to the living room.

“Ta-da,” Richie announces. Eddie turns and his eyes go right down to Riley, his face splitting into a big grin as he comes over to adjust her headband, then fix Audrey’s collar.

“You both are _so pretty,”_ Eddie tells them. “God—”

“None of that, Eds,” Stan reminds him. Eddie goes to Nora, taking her out of Stan’s hold to cradle her against his chest.

“Aren’t you beautiful?” Eddie says softly down to Nora. He shifts her headband a little bit, runs his thumb over the shell of her ear. Richie’s heart fucking _bleeds_ out of his sleeves from loving him and their family.

“We done good, Eddie,” Richie tells him. Eddie looks up at him after a long moment where he seems unable to look away from Nora’s face, just to smile up at Richie.

“Thank you,” Eddie says. Richie doesn’t have to ask what for, just like Eddie hadn’t had to ask when Richie had said the same thing to him last night; he just knows what Eddie’s thanking him for. For all of this, for loving him, for loving their daughters _with_ him, for surviving with him, for _living._

“Thank _you,”_ Richie says, because, hell, fucking _ditto._ He’d _die_ without them.

It’s not long before everyone’s there. Stan and Patty, of course, and Ezra, because, well— also, _of course,_ he can’t fucking drive or anything; Ben and Bev, and Ben is Audrey’s _kvater,_ and the two of them are excited to fucking _dote_ on her; Mike and Bill, and Bill is Nora’s _kvater,_ and Mike keeps insisting he’s just going to steal her someday. Georgie, of course. Arlene Hanscom even makes the trip out to visit Ben and Bev and come to the naming ceremonies, which made Richie fucking _weep,_ when he walked into his living room and she’d just said, “Surprise!”

Richie’s sister, _of course,_ does _not_ fucking show up, even though Richie tried to invite her on Facebook, against his better instincts. A few of Richie and Eddie’s work friends, some of Richie’s old friends from _SNL,_ a few of Eddie’s old friends from his old life with Myra. It’s a nice little gathering, Richie thinks. It’s _normal,_ which is kind of funny, considering what happened in this very same apartment last night.

Riley’s naming ceremony goes first, being the oldest, which is for the best, because Stan is Riley’s _kvater_ and he needs to lead by example. He takes Riley and says, _“Brucha haba’ah,”_ which Patty and Richie both repeat, and then Eddie repeats, after a beat.

“This is Riley Frances Kaspbrak,” Richie announces to the room. “We’ve chosen Ruth for her Hebrew name.”

“Ruth is alienated from her first home and stays incredibly kind to everyone,” Eddie says. Riley turns her face into Stan’s shirt. “We thought it was the perfect name for her.”

“Mazel tov,” Stan tells them both. He leads them through a short prayer before he reads William Blake’s “[ Infant Joy. ](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43665/infant-joy)”

Ben hesitantly steps forward to take Audrey from Richie. They’d decided to keep it all short and sweet, since Richie’s mostly doing this for the party anyways, so none of it’s going to go all that long.

“This is Audrey Beverly Kaspbrak,” Eddie says. Bev sobs behind her hand, then shakes her head.

“Keep going,” Bev says. A few people laugh, Richie included.

“We’ve chosen Adira for her Hebrew name,” Eddie continues.

“Adira means delicate,” Richie says. “Or beautiful, or slender, or any of that, but it also means she’s a soldier.”

“She’s a fighter,” Eddie says proudly. He turns to grin at Richie, and Richie grins right the fuck back.

“Mazel tov,” Ben says. Stan helps him with the prayer before Ben says, “I, uhh— I actually wrote a poem for her. Is that okay?”

“No shit!” Richie exclaims.

 _“Richie,”_ Eddie hisses, as Stan laughs at him.

“Of _course_ that’s okay,” Richie tells him. “Lay it on me, Haystack.”

Ben flushes red, but he pulls a square of paper out of his pocket and unfolds it with one hand, still gripping Audrey tight in his other hand.

 _“‘this world is new and green,’”_ he reads from the paper. He looks down at Audrey, his handsome face so fucking warm and soft. Richie loves him fiercely. _“‘and i will guide you through it, holding my breath of wind, to see all the lives you’ll live.”_

Richie whistles, just making Ben laugh and blush even darker. Bill bounds forward, beckoning for Nora, and Eddie passes her over.

“This is Eleanor Rachel Kaspbrak,” Richie declares. Bill holds her up high, making Eddie’s hands shoot up nervously. “We did _not_ go with the obvious Rachel for her. We picked Elana as her Hebrew name.”

“Elana is a bright and shining light,” Eddie says. “Or, that’s what the name means, anyways. And it means tree— oak tree.”

“Putting down roots,” Bill says approvingly, glancing over at Mike. Mike blushes, which just makes Richie smile even wider. “Mazel tov.”

 _“Thank_ you very much,” Richie replies. Bill laughs again.

Stan helps Bill through the prayer, too, and he doesn’t stutter once, which Richie applauds him for once he’s done. Bill waves him off so he can say, “I’ve been reliably informed I write terrible endings, so I’m just going to read Sylvia Plath’s ‘[ You’re ](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49010/youre).’”

Stan then motions Richie and Eddie forward. Richie takes Riley, and Eddie takes Audrey and Nora. Stan helps them wrap each of them in their own _tallit,_ taking each of them in turn and washing each of them with water from the mini- _mikveh_ he brought along. He helps them through their blessings and prayers, _shehecheyanu,_ and then Stan does their closing prayers, and… that’s it. It’s done. Richie and Stan had figured out how to keep it as short and simple as possible, and it fucking _worked._

Stan gives the _Hamotzi_ and dips the challah into honey before giving it to Richie. Richie breaks off a piece for Riley. She rips it in half with her tiny baby teeth, Richie claps his hands together and says, “Alright, let’s get this party _started,”_ and _that’s_ Patty’s cue to stop whipping covers off of dishes on every available surface. Richie’s made most of the food, and he only vaguely remembers the familiar tastes from when he was _really_ young, when his parents still took him and his sister to temple and he had to go to events for Stan.

He shakes off the thoughts of the past and focuses, instead, on the future, on Nora dozing off against his chest while he sits in his armchair and talks with Arlene. She’s got Ezra, somehow, but he seems happy to be with her. She keeps commenting on how much he looks like Richie, but Richie doesn’t really see it; he thinks he looks like Patty.

“Hey,” Eddie says, perching on the arm of the chair. Richie leans into him, tipping his head back to look up at him. There’s a plate in Eddie’s hand, and he holds up a piece of honeyed challah bread. “Want some?”

“Fucking _yes,”_ Richie tells him, and Eddie sets it in his mouth. Richie licks his fingers, but Eddie just rolls his eyes, still smiling at him as he rips another piece off and holds it out for Richie to eat.

“She asleep?” Eddie asks. Richie looks down at her; she’s still dozing, but, now and then, her eyes will drift back open and try to look around the room, usually fairly unsuccessfully, before she shuts them again.

“Eh,” Richie says. “Kinda.” He bites at Eddie’s plate, and Eddie bats him away before he puts another piece of bread in his mouth. “She should probably take a nap soon anyways. Audrey, too.”

There’s a beat, and then Eddie groans.

 _“Audrey II,”_ Richie says delightedly. “I can’t believe we missed that. She’s _Twoey.”_

“Shut up, _shut up,”_ Eddie hisses. “Never tell _anyone._ Maybe nobody else will notice.”

“They’ll notice when her first birthday party is _Little Shop_ themed,” Richie says. Eddie leans down and kisses him, presumably just to shut him up.

“Over my fucking dead body,” Eddie tells him, before shoving another hunk of challah bread in his mouth and fleeing the scene.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation (in theory):  
> "Curse my enemies. Curse my fears. Curse those who have brought me tears. Curse those who have done me wrong. Make their punishment long and strong. This is my will, so mote it be. This is not how we will be treated. We shall not be beat. We will use our hands and feet. Our enemy shall be defeated. You have wronged me. You have wronged my family. You have wronged the universe. So mote it be unto you, times infinity. So shall it be, since you have wronged us. Now shall you be wronged, until your painful, unending death."
> 
> You can (and should!) talk to me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon)! I'm currently taking commissions there!


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